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Sandinista Avioncitos -- Lawrence Ferlinghetti

(Poem #95)Sandinista Avioncitos
 The little airplanes of the heart
 with their brave little propellers
 What can they do
 against the winds of darkness
 even as butterflies are beaten back
 by hurricanes
 yet do not die
 They lie in wait wherever
 they can hide and hang
 their fine wings folded
 and when the killer-wind dies
 they flutter forth again
 into the new-blown light
 live as leaves
-- Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Forgetfulness -- Billy Collins

(Poem #94)Forgetfulness
 The name of the author is the first to go
 followed obediently by the title, the plot,
 the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
 which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
 never even heard of,
 
 as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
 decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
 to a little fishing village where there are no phones. 
 
 Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
 and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
 and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
 
 something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
 the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
 
 Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
 it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
 not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.
 
 It has floated away down a dark mythological river
 whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
 well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
 who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
 
 No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
 to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
 No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
 out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
-- Billy Collins

People Like Us -- Robert Bly

(Poem #93)People Like Us
 There are more like us. All over the world
 There are confused people, who can't remember
 The name of their dog when they wake up, and people
 Who love God but can't remember where
 
 He was when they went to sleep. It's
 All right. The world cleanses itself this way.
 A wrong number occurs to you in the middle
 Of the night, you dial it, it rings just in time
 
 To save the house. And the second-story man
 Gets the wrong address, where the insomniac lives,
 And he's lonely, and they talk, and the thief
 Goes back to college. Even in graduate school,
 
 You can wander into the wrong classroom,
 And hear great poems lovingly spoken 
 By the wrong professor. And you find your soul,
 And greatness has a defender, and even in death you're safe.
-- Robert Bly

Saying Goodbye to Very Young Children -- John Updike

(Poem #92)Saying Goodbye to Very Young Children
 They will not be the same next time. The sayings   
 so cute, just slightly off, will be corrected.   
 Their eyes will be more skeptical, plugged in   
 the more securely to the worldly buzz   
 of television, alphabet, and street talk,   
 culture polluting their gazes' pure blue.   
 It makes you see at last the value of   
 those boring aunts and neighbors (their smells   
 of summer sweat and cigarettes, their faces                        
 like shapes of sky between shade-giving leaves)   
 who knew you from the start, when you were zero,   
 cooing their nothings before you could be bored   
 or knew a name, not even your own, or how   
 this world brave with hellos turns all goodbye.
-- John Updike

Beatrix is Three -- Adrian Mitchell

(Poem #91)Beatrix is Three
 At the top of the stairs
 I ask for her hand. O.K.
 She gives it to me.
 How her fist fits my palm,
 A bunch of consolation.
 We take our time
 Down the steep carpetway
 As I wish silently
 That the stairs were endless.
-- Adrian Mitchell

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening -- Robert Frost

(Poem #90)Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
 Whose woods these are I think I know,
 His house is in the village though.
 He will not see me stopping here,
 To watch his woods fill up with snow.

 My little horse must think it queer,
 To stop without a farmhouse near,
 Between the woods and frozen lake,
 The darkest evening of the year.

 He gives his harness bells a shake,
 To ask if there is some mistake.
 The only other sound's the sweep,
 Of easy wind and downy flake.

 The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
 But I have promises to keep,
 And miles to go before I sleep,
 And miles to go before I sleep.
-- Robert Frost

Good -- R S Thomas

(Poem #89)Good
 The old man comes out on the hill
 and looks down to recall earlier days
 in the valley. He sees the stream shine,
 the church stand, hears the litter of
 children's voices. A chill in the flesh
 tells him that death is not far off
 now: it is the shadow under the great boughs
 of life. His garden has herbs growing.
 The kestrel goes by with fresh prey
 in its claws. The wind scatters the scent
 of wild beans. The tractor operates
 on the earth's body. His grandson is there
 ploughing; his young wife fetches him
 cakes and tea and a dark smile. It is well.
-- R S Thomas

The Hungry Gap-Time -- Thomas Lux

(Poem #88)The Hungry Gap-Time
 late August, before the harvest, every one of us worn down
 by the plow, the hoe, rake, 
 and worry over rain.
 Chicken Coop confiscated
 by the rats and the raptors
 with nary a mouse to hunt. The corn's too green and hard,
 and the larder's down
 to dried apples
 and double-corned cod. We lie on our backs
 and stare at the blue;
 our work is done, our bellies flat.
 The mold on the wheat killed hardly a sheaf.
 The lambs fatten on the grass, our pigs we set
 to forage on their own-they'll be back
 when they whiff the first shucked ears
 of corn. Albert's counting
 bushels in his head
 to see if there's enough to ask Harriet's father
 for her hand. Harriet's father
 is thinking about Harriet's mother's bread
 pudding. The boys and girls 
 splash in the creek, 
 which is low but cold. Soon, soon
 there will be food
 again, and from what our hands have done
 we shall live another year here
 by the river
 in the valley 
 above the fault line
 beneath the mountain.
-- Thomas Lux

Come Gather Round Me, Parnellites -- William Butler Yeats

(Poem #87)Come Gather Round Me, Parnellites
 Come gather round me, Parnellites,
 And praise our chosen man,
 Stand upright on your legs awhile,
 Stand upright while you can,
 For soon we lie where he is laid
 And he is underground;
 Come fill up all those glasses 
 And pass the bottle round.
 
 And here's a cogent reason
 And I have many more,
 He fought the might of Ireland
 And saved the Irish poor,
 Whatever good a farmer's got
 He brought it all to pass;
 And here's another reason, 
 That Parnell loved a lass.
 
 And here's a final reason,
 He was of such a kind
 Every man that sings a song
 Keeps Parnell in his mind
 For Parnell was a proud man,
 No prouder trod the ground,
 And a proud man's a lovely man
 So pass the bottle round.
 
 The Bishops and the Party
 That tragic story made,
 A husband that had sold his wife
 And after that betrayed;
 But stories that live longest
 Are sung above the glass,
 And Parnell loved his country
 And Parnell loved his lass.
-- William Butler Yeats

Ars Poetica -- Archibald MacLeish

(Poem #86)Ars Poetica
 A poem should be palpable and mute
 As a globed fruit

 Dumb
 As old medallions to the thumb

 Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
 Of casement ledges where the moss has grown -

 A poem should be wordless
 As the flight of birds

 A poem should be motionless in time
 As the moon climbs

 Leaving, as the moon releases
 Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

 Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
 Memory by memory the mind -

 A poem should be motionless in time
 As the moon climbs

 A poem should be equal to:
 Not true

 For all the history of grief
 An empty doorway and a maple leaf

 For love
 The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea -

 A poem should not mean
 But be
-- Archibald MacLeish

A Psalm of Life -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

(Poem #85)A Psalm of Life
 WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST

 Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
     Life is but an empty dream! --
 For the soul is dead that slumbers,
     And things are not what they seem.

 Life is real!  Life is earnest!
     And the grave is not its goal;
 Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
     Was not spoken of the soul.

 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
     Is our destined end or way;
 But to act, that each to-morrow
     Find us farther than to-day.

 Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
     And our hearts, though stout and brave,
 Still, like muffled drums, are beating
     Funeral marches to the grave.

 In the world's broad field of battle,
     In the bivouac of Life,
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
     Be a hero in the strife!

 Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
     Let the dead Past bury its dead!
 Act, -- act in the living Present!
     Heart within, and God o'erhead!

 Lives of great men all remind us
     We can make our lives sublime,
 And, departing, leave behind us
     Footprints on the sands of time;

 Footprints, that perhaps another,
     Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
 A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
     Seeing, shall take heart again.

 Let us, then, be up and doing,
     With a heart for any fate;
 Still achieving, still pursuing,
     Learn to labor and to wait.
-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow